


Twenty-seven

by moriartyshouldseemeinacrown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 19:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriartyshouldseemeinacrown/pseuds/moriartyshouldseemeinacrown
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is twenty-seven years old and admitted to a hospital for collapsing while doing paperwork.His twenty year old brother, Sherlock, does not attempt to visit him, or contact him at all.





	Twenty-seven

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Almost There](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086176) by [moriartyshouldseemeinacrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriartyshouldseemeinacrown/pseuds/moriartyshouldseemeinacrown). 



> This is a rewrite of the first chapter of a fic I wrote years ago. It's a short thing, I didn't want to delete the old fic and I don't have the time right now to actually flesh out a full fic. I might actually write a plot and continue this, but I make no promises because I'm super busy with college/work and I'm also not into Sherlock as much as I was a long time ago.
> 
>  
> 
> TRIGGERS FOR: eating disorders, anorexia, shitty siblings
> 
> feel free to leave a comment, kudos, you know the drill

Mycroft Holmes is twenty-seven years old and admitted to a hospital for collapsing while doing paperwork. 

His twenty year old brother, Sherlock, does not attempt to visit him, or contact him at all. (In fact, when their parents show concern for Mycroft once he is released, Sherlock brushes his brother off. “He was probably faking something,” Sherlock’s nose in the air as he pushes past his family and out the door. “God knows no one would want to touch him otherwise.” The door slams behind him.)

At the hospital, doctors and nurses make note of Mycroft’s weight (he’s almost thin enough) (he needs to eat more, so underweight) (he’s so so close to being thin enough) (god he’s disgusting, his bones are visible). Mycroft does not argue with the doctors, keeps his mouth closed until meals are brought and he eats what he is told to eat. He fattens up, bones retreating beneath flesh and face filling out like it did when he was a child. He is given a meal plan and a phone number both of which he throws in the trash as he plans a new diet to get rid of this weight immediately. 

He slims down and no one notices. He gets on with his work, with looking after his baby brother.

And just like that he’s back in Sherlock’s life, arranges a meeting with Detective Lestrade, negotiating to make sure Sherlock will be kept safe and occupied. Lestrade agrees and lets Mycroft know what cases his brother is helping with and when. Sherlock throws a tantrum and calls Mycroft for the first time in years. (When Sherlock calls it’s only to insult Mycroft while he rages around his flat, cries of “fat” and “useless” crawl across the phone line. Sherlock ends the call with, “Do everyone a favor and die.” It’s too much for Mycroft and he allows himself a rare day off, which he spends entirely in his home gym.)

He keeps watch over his baby brother over the next few years and at one point, before John Watson is involved, Sherlock deletes everything he knows about Mycroft’s eating disorder. Every insult thrown, every time he’s ignored the sounds of dry heaving from his brother’s bathroom as a child, gone. When Mycroft realizes this, he feels sick.

Sherlock fills the empty space left in his head with excuses for his brother, things like petty arguments between children that he let rot and fester until they bubbled up as loathing. He loathed Mycroft, John could never understand, Lestrade could never understand, Mycroft would never understand. It was all Mycroft’s fault, Sherlock being alone. He must’ve been a horrible brother, must’ve done something and forced Sherlock to delete it, to delete acting like a normal person. So his hate never left Mycroft, only got redirected from his disorder to everything else about him. 

—

It had been two months since the Holmes brothers talked face to face and Mycroft decided to drop in. He was too tired to think if Sherlock would even be in or not, so he wasn’t surprised when Doctor Watson opened the door and invited him up. But he was surprised when John mentioned Sherlock had just gone out, and still invited Mycroft for a cup of tea. He accepted.

“You haven’t had a single drop of your tea,” John interrupted their brief conversation, Mycroft slowly set his mug of sugarless, creamless tea down on a coaster. “Why?”

“Simply not thirsty,” Mycroft forced a smile, willed the bags under his eyes to disappear and his skin to not look so tired. He hoped John wasn’t as clever or caring as his brother seemed to think.

“In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat, ever, in the time I’ve known you.” His tone is accusatory now, with one finger to his lips and his own mug half empty on the table. 

“Well, you haven’t known me for very long, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft glanced at his watch. “And I’m about to be late for a meeting, excuse me.” He should have known better, should have taken his time getting up. But Mycroft got to his feet and the room spun. (When did he eat last? Yesterday, morning, cup of tea. That’s not good, not good enough to last him this long. Not in front of Doctor Watson.) (Maybe he can help.) (He would never help you.)

John watched Mycroft with calculating eyes, “You okay there?” Mycroft nodded.

“Yes, now I really must be off. Good day, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft ignored the tilt of the stairs and had a death grip on the railing, gracefully stumbling into the car and telling the driver to take him home, there was no chance he would be going back to the Diogenes today. If John was too worried, or too perceptive, he might turn up there and Mycroft would rather not risk that. He bid the driver goodbye, made a cup of tea and got into bed. His back to the full-length mirror that called out to him (Come on, Mycroft. Just one look. A quick one, won’t hurt anything. Come look at that progress, show me your bones.) (Don’t you dare let your disgusting body anywhere near this mirror. Your pale flesh and tired body should be in a grave, take a load off and quit staring at yourself.), and a cup of tea getting cold on his bedside table, he fell asleep creating a schedule to make up for his paperwork tomorrow and excuses for not drinking any more tea with John.


End file.
